


Rebirth

by stuckinlibrary



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Clones, Gen, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Pre-Season Three so my own headcannon on who the Original might have been
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 07:22:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3241187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuckinlibrary/pseuds/stuckinlibrary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I recall only parts of who I was Before. My name eludes me. Every time it slips from the tongue of a white-coat all I hear is static. But I remember what it felt like to be held by my mother, kissed by my lover, and poked and prodded until I nearly died."</p>
<p>One-shot from the point of view of the Original. References to multiple clones throughout, but no actual appearances from any of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rebirth

My head, splitting open with the swing of an axe. At least that's what it feels like. The pain making goosebumps rise on my flesh, as though an icy finger trails over my body. My heart, broken. Cracks spider-webbing from the centre of my soul like new veins, pulsing out of time with the world. I’ve loved so many, and somehow I know they are all gone.

Teardrops leak from closed eyelids as the memories spring to life, crowding over one another, vying for my attention. They are crying out to be heard, to be remembered. Within them I hear my name. Whispered from a woman's lips between kisses; in the exasperated sigh of a man whose marriage seems to be almost falling apart; a warning ripped from the mouth of a screaming friend as a bullet is fired from behind; from my own mouth as I realise the me driving the car is not the me I thought it was...

I'm disoriented. I know there's something I'm missing, but I can't yet place it. Like the two mes in the car. How is that possible? One of me driving, one in the back with short hair dyed red. The red haired me said the driver me wasn't me me. There were three of me?

I see them in the car through the scope of my gun. Centre the sight on the red haired me's forehead. With a squeeze of the trigger she's gone, and I feel the pain clear as day in the single instance before I'm gone, feel the fear spring to life in my gut as I take cover behind the wheel of the car and drive off with adrenaline thrumming through my veins, feel the gun recoil as I try to lock onto the target still alive in the car and fire another shot, and another shot, and another shot...

And then I remember. The constant testing, probing; people in white lab coats taking blood and little pieces of skin that flaked off my fingers, cutting sections of hair from my scalp. My DNA twisting on a screen that would have been too big to fit in my living room. (… At least in one life.) Incomprehensible chatter from the mouths of those around me wormed its way into my head. I didn't understand much of what they were saying, but it was plain to see they did not care for the harm they were doing me. They watched me closely, yet could not see the way my body had started to fail. It was only much later that they realised and began to panic. I did not know what they were going to do. 'One more test,' they said, 'then we'll have a break; you can rest; we will stop.'

They injected something into my bloodstream. An alarm sounded, someone screaming 'fire' multiple times as a mechanised voice intoned, “This is a fire alarm. Evacuate all buildings immediately.” One of the white-coats grabbed my hand and started dragging me towards the exit, but then I was stumbling and a swear ripped from the white-coat's mouth as they realised whatever serum had been in the needle was working, and the next thing I knew the world went dark and I was waking up, the axe coming to rest inside my head again and again and again.

I recall only parts of who I was Before. My name eludes me. Every time it slips from the tongue of a white-coat all I hear is static. But I remember what it felt like to be held by my mother, kissed by my lover, and poked and prodded until I nearly died. They must have left me be for quite some time, because though my head hurts too much to open my eyes and see, I feel somewhat healthy (even though I am weighed down by tiredness).

I succumb to the memories again, sifting through the confusion of conversations with myself. I let them wash over me even though it hurts to remember all the horrible things that happened. I learn of what became of each of them, learn the secrets they uncovered about their origins, about me. I learn of things the white-coats never told me. And the anger starts to build.

Because I know what they did now and I'll never forgive them.

Over time each voice in my head quietens, the rush of memories slowing to a trickle until my head is suddenly void of thought. I lie here a moment, digesting all that I have learned.

I open my eyes and the world comes into sharp focus almost instantly, the harsh glare from the fluorescent lights burning phantom shadows into the back of my eyelids when I blink. My gaze locks onto my hand, spread palm up on top of the bedsheets. My pinky twitches, then my thumb. With little effort I wiggle each finger in turn, first my right hand then my left, trying to shake off the residual numbness lingering throughout my body.

Footsteps echo up the corridor outside, voices in hushed discussion growing louder as they near. I recognise the all too familiar tone with which they speak; white-coats are all the same in this manner. My hands snap into fists and I'm on my feet in seconds, the anger boiling in the pit of my stomach becoming cold rage as a singular image surfaces to the forefront of my mind.

No. I will never forgive them for that.

I may not have known her Before, and I may not know her now, but the fierce protectiveness of the Clone Club is instilled deep within me. And after what they have done to her I have nothing left to lose.

The door opens and two white-coats I've never seen before enter the room. They halt suddenly upon seeing that I'm already awake and standing. One takes a step forward, clipboard in hand.

“Ah, I see you're up and about.” He says somewhat cheerfully. My jaw is clenched and I stare at him in silence.

“Right then, you must have a lot of questions, @%*$^@,” The name floats in one ear and out the other; it means nothing to me anymore.

“Do not call me this.” The phrase slips from my mouth with ease, though lacking the usual accent to accompany it, and I see a flicker of uncertainty in the eyes of the white-coat at the door. This tells me they remember her, and exactly what she was capable of. 

They ask what to call me, if not by the name they knew me as Before. And with each step forward I tell them.

My name is Sarah Manning, Elizabeth Childs, Katja Obinger, Rachel Duncan, Alison Hendrix, Cosima Niehaus, Jennifer Fitzsimmonds, Tony Sawicki, Helena, and Charlotte Bowles. (To name a few.)

I have always been bad at remembering names, but these I will never forget. They are seared into my skin, they look back at me in reflections... I lived their lives through their memories, and though the white-coats may say I am the Original I know I am not. I am all of them in one. The final product of their experiment. And I will have vengeance for the pain they caused to my sisters, my Clone Club; To me... And to Kira. Dear little Kira, who cared so much for all of us, whose little heart held so much love...

So as the fear finds its way into their eyes and they begin to back away I tell them:

My name... Is Orphan Black.


End file.
